


Canvas

by gildedfrost



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Coming Out, Gen, Post-Canon, Trans Male Character, Transitioning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:41:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22381252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gildedfrost/pseuds/gildedfrost
Summary: The first decision takes but a moment to make, a second of consideration that takes hold so deeply that it is committed to the moment it is thought. One second the RK800 is a she, and the next a he, all mental processes immediately shifted to accommodate the new pronoun. It takes another second to readjust the shift, adding a notifier to speak differently than he thinks, and on the third second, he starts and stops--twice--a thought process for deeper self-analysis.On the thirty-fourth second, as Hank returns to his seat with a fresh cup of coffee, he starts it again, processing in the background for the rest of the day to determine if he likes this change and if it is the best change possible.
Relationships: Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900, Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94





	Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick little fic I wrote yesterday. I hope you enjoy!

The first decision takes but a moment to make, a second of consideration that takes hold so deeply that it is committed to the moment it is thought. One second the RK800 is a she, and the next a he, all mental processes immediately shifted to accommodate the new pronoun. It takes another second to readjust the shift, adding a notifier to speak differently than he thinks, and on the third second, he starts and stops--twice--a thought process for deeper self-analysis. 

On the thirty-fourth second, as Hank returns to his seat with a fresh cup of coffee, he starts it again, processing in the background for the rest of the day to determine if he likes this change and if it is the best change possible.

He was built to make split-second decisions, and he has continued to do so. Decisiveness is a trait he is thankful to have and eager to cultivate, but patience--required for the long-term reconnaissance--is a skill he has not frequently exercised. He allows it now, making the choice to focus on his daily tasks and delay his analysis. 

Tomorrow morning he will permit himself more decisions.

The next morning comes and he has not made any new decisions.

He is a man, and that’s a decision already made, but he doesn’t know what to do about it, if anything. He has realized, in hindsight, discomfort, much of which he attributed to simply being an android, or a perfectionist, or a prototype, but now realizes could be more than that. Another process runs in the background.

Hank notices. He’s sharper these days, no longer as groggy and off-kilter as he used to be, and he can see when things change in his android friend. “You got something going on?” he asks when they leave the gas station, snacks in hand. 

“Not particularly. If I require your input, I will let you know,” he says. His LED has been yellow all day, only half-covered by the hair he keeps down. He wants Hank’s validation, he thinks selfishly, not his input. “But I appreciate the concern.”

Hank looks like he doesn’t quite believe that, but he shrugs and unlocks the car, looking no more or less stressed than before asking the question. “So when it’s about me, it’s fine to be nosy, but when it’s about you…”

“You know when you go down a rabbit hole of watching videos online?”

“Yeah? Are you following a trail of kitten videos right now or something?” Hank asks.

“No. I’ve followed a number of trails from a brief dive into identity philosophy, and have diverted from my initial research topic to…” He furrows his eyebrows. “...a biography on Pythagoras and about three different essays on various aspects of ethics in Christianity from the last decade, one of which is a blog post with questionable grammar but fascinating insights.”

Hank chuckles and shakes his head, looking over his shoulder as he backs out of the parking lot. “Why identity philosophy, Grace?”

He frowns and tilts his head, watching Hank. It’s only natural that after his discomfort with everything that has been given--assigned--to him, he doesn’t like the name, either. The blip of red in the rearview mirror is brief, but he still sees it. “I don’t want to be called by that name anymore,” he says, making the decision to share that much with Hank. He isn’t done processing, but he knows this much is true. 

Hank doesn’t ask for another name to call him, and that leaves him in a comfortable space free from pressure. He doesn’t know if Hank realizes how much that means to him while he’s figuring this out.

Names should mean something. 

He picks Connor because it doesn’t mean anything to him. It is a name that’s neither common nor uncommon. It is average, and when he says it out loud in the quiet of his bare apartment, it doesn’t make an impression on him.

It feels like a canvas.

It’s tempting for Connor (he feels a thrill at the thought of his new name) to simply make a brief announcement at work. An email would suffice: “My name is Connor and I am a man. Kindly disregard my previous designation and assigned gender. Thank you.” It would take no more than a thought and a sent message. But it would be hasty when he hasn’t sorted out the details of his own thoughts or plans. If someone came to him with a question, he would be more likely to have a cat video that explains his feelings better than any words. (He doesn’t think Hank meant for him to find any meaning in cat videos, but he empathizes with their ventures into this big, unknown world, and finds that it helps sort out his own thoughts to have something onto which he can project his feelings.)

(He does know, however, that when he stifles a smile at his desk, Hank smiles smugly to himself, knowing that Nines sent him another video of some animal doing something worthy of amusement, even if that something is an eel and not a kitten.)

He has gathered information throughout the week, analyzing the behavior of his coworkers and reviewing hundreds of accounts online of transgender people who have come out to friends, family, and the workplace. He has no concerns; if the people around him will not respect him, then he will cease engaging with them and remain with the ones who will. Hank and Nines will respect him, and many of the others will come around, he suspects, even if they don’t adapt immediately. Reed may be a concern, but with training, time, and a hearty dose of therapy and introspection, the other detective is no longer a nuisance. Connor knows Reed will not keep his job if he reacts poorly.

The weekend provides a distraction from the concerns of what other people might think. The mirror in his apartment provides ample time for him to examine himself. He knows how he was designed to look, with or without a mirror. He likes his strong jaw and soft eyes. The brown of his hair is a good color. There is thin, sparse hair on his arms, and none on his legs or any of his torso. Freckles dot his body in an unspecified pattern, imperfections planned to every last inch.

He was given the appearance of a woman, but it’s a manufactured image. He was not designed with the flaws of humanity in mind. He doesn’t have any pimples or scars, rosacea or burns. No smudges of a birthmark, only black marks stamped on the white of his chassis. His code does not permit his legs, belly, chest, chin, or toes to grow any hair; those are absent from his model, while Nines has the ability to experiment.

His hair is in a pixie cut now, different from the ponytail he wore when he was first activated and different from the long hair he had been wearing down until now. His options are limited, but that’s why he stands here now, before his bedroom mirror, with a razor and a pair of scissors. His coded hairstyles will not suffice. He does not want to borrow code for another hairstyle. He will cut his hair himself and record the dimensions when he is done, storing it into his code for himself alone. 

Later, he will make a point to explore what else he can do, what other hair he wants to have. Today, he changes what he has to his liking.

Nines is flattered.

“You look wonderful, Grace,” he says when they meet at the park. Nines is walking Cucumber, his greyhound, a rescue who is more comfortable around androids than humans and warmed up to Connor within hours. “Are you exploring your appearance?”

Connor now looks very much like Nines. His hair is in a very similar style and his face is less soft. He can’t do anything about the plastic that models his face, but he has experimented with the distribution of the synthskin to find an appearance that is, if not masculine, at least androgynous. He does not want to look exactly like Nines, but he finds the default RK900 appearance appealing. The current configuration is pleasing when he looks in the mirror. 

He doesn’t say any of this, because it’s the name that prickles under his skin, like something rotten that Cyberlife has left to fester. His carefully concocted plan to come out cracks as he decides that, out of all the people he knows, Nines will understand best. “My name is Connor, and I am a man,” he says. If he were around humans, he would feel self-conscious, given that his voice is made to be feminine and his chest leads people to make assumptions. It’s silly; he is a computer. 

Nines nods. “Shall I call you Connor, then?”

“Yes.” He pauses and reconsiders. “Not around the humans I know. I am not yet prepared.” Shame nearly holds the words in his throat, but he forces them out anyway. He is not perfect, even if he was made to be. It is not weakness to admit that he needs more time.

“I understand. Thank you, Connor,” he says, and they follow Cucumber as she leads them to the next interesting tree. “Would you like to get coffee?”

Nines’ icy blue eyes are beautiful, filled with a confidence and an assuredness that is partly manufactured. His face was meant to make him look demanding of attention and respect, but all Connor can see is the kindness that grows within, fighting back the weeds of his design. “Let’s.”

He wonders if, given the chance, RK800-60 would have felt the same. 

Next time he stops by the memorial near Belle Isle, he places a rose for them.

Connor decides to change his voice. 

There isn’t anything wrong with the voice he was given, but it no longer fits. It feels like another piece of the doll that he was made to be. The calibration is simple, and he tests the sound of it while Hank eats lunch outside of a sub shop. The weather is warming up now that spring is here.

“How does my voice sound, Lieutenant?”

Hank swallows a bit more food than he probably should while swallowing, clearly surprised. “It sounds like you ate gravel,” he says flatly. 

“I asked about my voice, not yours.” Hank’s right, though; it’s rough. He makes an adjustment. “Why do you always get the tuna and not the salami?”

“Tuna’s from a can, salami sits out half the day. What’s your goal with the voice thing?”

Connor makes another tweak. “I’m exploring my options.” This sounds close to what he was aiming for. It’s deep enough to surprise himself, not being used to this, but it’s pleasing. “Given that I am an android, my options for personal customization are practically unlimited. Speaking of, I’ve decided on a name: Connor.”

He sends out his planned email to the department as he says this, pleased that Hank, as expected, ignores the _ding_ his phone makes. “You’ve been thinking about this a while, then.”

“Half my life.” Connor grins. “I want this for myself. I’m not who I was made to be.”

“Huh. Good. You deserve the chance to explore shit like that. Thanks for telling me, Connor,” Hank says, trying out the name. He chews another bite of his sandwich. “Does this mean anything about the rest of who you were made to be? Being a detective?”

“No. I’m doing some good here, and I want to keep doing good. The DPD’s also obligated to pay me.” It’s a luxury many androids don’t have yet; Connor’s role in the DPD is high-profile and the city scrambled to put up a good image the moment the tables turned. “Things will change someday. I’ll find another job that suits myself and my goals better. I don’t know if that will be in one year or twenty. I can’t even fathom the thought of five years of life yet.”

“Christ, don’t make me feel any older than I already do.”

“I’m like a baby, Hank. A baby with electric bills and taxes.”

“Connor--”

“Your phone could be my grandfather. And your car, I’m not sure it--”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Hank says, running a hand down his face. “I’ll start looking at electric cars. Fucking hell.”

Connor smiles, feeling a warmth in his chest. He knew Hank would be good about this. He always has been.

He has just enough money saved away for a new chest plate. He orders it with help from Nines, who aids in navigating Cyberlife’s tedious order process for unique models like him--with an adjustment to boot, already meticulously mapped up with his own software--and they let him know it will be ready in two days. He could have ordered it earlier, but he wanted it to be reinforced like the rest of his chassis, which is what makes up the bulk of the cost.

It fits.

Not all of Connor’s concerns are resolved. He finds ever more parts of himself to be discontent with, but so too does he find ways to become content with them. His body is not perfect--not to his specifications--but it is better. His soul slots soundly into this one, feeling more at home than he ever thought possible. The people around him adapt as expected, and while there are whispers and looks, he has endured worse before. 

He shouldn’t need to endure, but there will always be people like them. 

What matters is that the people he loves are there for him. Nines is always ready to walk by his side, Cucumber at his heel, no matter the situation. Hank is unwavering in his support and friendship, filled with flaws but changing every day. Others he grows close to hold no judgment towards him--for this, at least. 

It’s all that he could ask for, and his life is fuller for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> You can find me on Twitter as @gildedfrost (18+), and I spend time in the [New ERA](https://discord.gg/2EKAAz3) DBH Discord server as well!


End file.
